We could be Heroes
by RainbowLightsaber
Summary: Post WW2 Fanfiction, the countries thoughts right after the war. First finished Fanfic ever!


Hey there :)

So this is my first finished fanfic, I really hope you like it.

In case it's not clear enough, here's the order of characters:

1. America

2. Britain

3. France

4. Italy

5. Germany

6. Austria

NOTE: I do not own anything. Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya.

* * *

He felt like there was an enormous weight resting on his shoulders. A lot of people had wanted to drag him out onto the streets to join the celebrations, congratulate him, follow him, and it had cost him a lot of energy to keep them from doing so. At the same time he knew that a lot of people were looking at him and shaking their heads, disapprovingly.

Too many things were in his head at once, and he didn't know what to do. He tried his best to avoid all those people that tried to stop him and ignored their voices until he had made his way into his room. But it wasn't peaceful there. He was alone, but he could still hear the people celebrating outside. He could hear them cheering, singing, and he knew that, in some way, they were cheering and singing for him. It made him sick.

He looked down at his trembling hands. They were dusty and stained with motor oil, his skin dry and calloused. He tried to wipe it off on his pants, but when it didn't work, he started to feel uncomfortable. No, not just uncomfortable, he felt downright terrible. He looked at his uniform. It was dirty as well, and there was a gigantic stain of blood on his jacket. It wasn't his own blood. This knowledge brought him to the verge of tears. He needed to get rid of this uniform. He couldn't wear it any longer without going insane. It only reminded him of all the horrible things that he had done. His shaky hands moved to pull of his bomber jacket. He held it for a moment before tossing it against the wall. He had worn it every time he had gotten onto his plane and took of to drop some more bombs. He couldn't see it any longer. Then he unbuttoned his tan uniform jacket. The stain on the front made him sick. He couldn't look at it. He just couldn't. Then he pulled off his dirty pants. Then his crumpled green tie. Then his not so white anymore dress shirt. He gathered the dirty clothing and thought about throwing it out of the window, but when he saw the scene out on the street he knew he couldn't open the window without loosing the last pieces of his sanity.

The voices were suddenly so close, so loud, and he could see his flag everywhere. His beautiful flag, the flag he had always been so proud of, it suddenly seemed so terribly inappropriate and out of place. They shouldn't be celebrating like this, he thought. They really shouldn't. This wasn't something to be proud of. It was simply wrong. He couldn't look at it. Blue, red and white everywhere, people singing patriotic songs and his national anthem. He bit his bottom lip hard and pulled the curtains close. Then he dropped the bunch of clothes that had been in his hands. Then he stumbled into his bathroom.

He splashed some cold water into his face, but didn't dare to look into the mirror. The mere thought of seeing his conflicted face made him feel sick all over again. And as if to prove his point his insides started to move around furiously, barely giving him any time to drop to his knees in front of the toilet before he started to cough and choke violently. When he was able to breathe properly again he wiped his mouth off on his wrist and pulled his glasses off. And he really used to think he was a hero? Now it just seemed pathetic and self-righteous to him. In this story, he truly wasn't the hero. He wasn't the guy with the bright smile that came to save the day. Definitely not. No, in this story, he was one of the villains.

* * *

He felt like he needed to move around. So he did. He wandered the halls of his house, trying to remove all the terrible thoughts from his head. It was so quiet all of sudden. Way too quiet for him. Recently, it had only been this quiet when the bombs were about to destroy another part of his country. But there were no more bombs. There was just bone-crushing, insufferable, devouring silence. He knew he would do more terrible things in the future if he would celebrate, like the rest of his country did. He didn't want to hurt others ever again. And in all honesty, for him, there was nothing to celebrate. There were no winners. Allies or Axis, they were all losers. They had lost the emotions and character traits that made them human beings. They hadn't acted like humans at all. They had acted like cold-hearted killers without rationality or conscience.

He felt like he was about to go insane. Maybe he already was. He would never know, and there was nobody to tell him either. But he felt like there should be something that wasn't there. He felt as if an important part of him was missing. Something that had always accompanied him. He just couldn't quite place it. So he continued to wander from room to room, looking for that little something that made him feel whole, even though he had no idea what this something actually was. His steps grew quicker and quicker with every opened door that didn't reveal what he was hoping to find. He stumbled around aimlessly and the terrible memories forced themselves back into his mind, haunting him. Pictures of destroyed cities, dead people and burned land, bringing him to the verge of tears. It was so terrifying, thinking of all this things all alone. No, he wasn't just alone. He was lonely.

He still hadn't figured out what was missing, what he had lost to make him feel so fidgety and nervous. He tried to force back the tears that welled up all of sudden and for a moment he stopped walking. He wiped the huge tears off his face and took a moment to listen for any kind of noise in his house. And then he found, or actually heard, what he had been looking for. Familiar little voices that, though more panicked and nervous than ever, somehow managed to calm him down. A slightly desperate smile spread over his face and he opened the door to his bedroom where the voices had come from.

And there they were, the fairies' familiar faces, his faithful friends since he had just been a small child. They were floating above his bed and looked at him as he opened the door. "You are here." he said quietly, voice coarse, raspy and with a tiny spark of hope in it. He closed the door and took a few careful steps towards his bed, but the fairies flinched and moved backwards abruptly. He could see the panic, the sadness and the fear in their faces and felt a pang of guilt. His heart clenched and he reached his fingers out to reach his friends, but they flinched again. Suddenly he could see another feeling in their eyes. Next to panic, sadness and fear there was disgust. They were disgusted. His face fell and he could feel the tears well up in his eyes again. "A-Are you scared of me…?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. For a moment it was absolutely quiet. Then one of the fairies opened her mouth to speak. "You've done terrible things." she said carefully, quietly, sounding as if she was on the verge of tears herself. "Don't you see?" He tried to swallow past the hard lump in his throat and wanted to speak again, but found that he had nothing to say in response.

She was right. There was no excuse for his actions. He had known it all the time, but he had decided to ignore the little voice in his head that had constantly kept on telling him that all of this wasn't right. Still unable to speak he just gave a small nod. A few more moments passed in silence until the fairy started to speak again. "Farewell, Arthur. One day, we will return to you." With those words his faithful friends dissolved into thin air and left him behind. Once again, he was alone. No, not alone. He was lonely. Everybody had left him. And it didn't even surprise him. Nobody would want to spend their time with a person like him. He sat down on his bed and felt his lips trembling as the tears streamed down his face and he started to sob. He buried his face in his hands and didn't even bother trying to hold back. It was no use anyway. He had held back these tears way too long already. He ran a hand through his hair. Nobody wanted to be with him anymore. Everybody had turned their back towards him. It was his fate. Loneliness was a cold feeling, but he was used to it. It had always been that way. The mighty United Kingdom, alone at the top.

* * *

He knew he couldn't be alone right now. He needed to see that his people were still there. Also, he couldn't stand being alone when he felt this miserable. He wandered his city's destroyed streets, looked into his people's faces, tried to see a sparkle of pride and hope, but he couldn't. He couldn't see what he was hoping to see. No matter where he went. Even though it probably was there, he couldn't quite realize it.

He knew that he most likely looked horrible. His uniform he had once been so proud of was ripped and stained, his hair was dirty as well, and he knew that there was nothing in his face but desperation and the feeling of not knowing what to do next. But for once in his long life, he didn't care about what he looked like. He wrapped his arms around himself and slowed down a little, taking a closer look at his surroundings. The beautiful, unique houses that had made the city what it was, or at least what it had been: most of them were smashed into pieces, the ones that still stood had burned fronts and shattered windows. Despite the city's state the people looked hopeful. More hopeful that he himself, he was sure of it. They were hoping for a better future, that someday things would be alright again. He sat down on what had probably been a piece of a wall and looked around, to memorize this scene forever. Despite their state his people were working on cleaning up the mess and building things up again.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. How could they really think that the future would be better? Despite all the terrible things that had happened, how could they just wipe the dust off their hands and move on? And most importantly: why was he not able to feel this way? He forced back the tears that welled up as he realized that he was a disgrace to his country, useless, pathetic. He stood up and continued his walk. And he walked past a man who was busy hanging up the French flag on a very instable looking brick wall. He stopped and just stood there, watching as the man seemed to be content with his work. He turned around towards him and raised his hand to the spot above his heart. "Vive la France!" the man called out, and he could feel himself freeze entirely. He just stood there, mouth open and his eyes glassy.

This was it. This was the spark of hope he had been looking for. The proof that his people still had hope and believed that the future would be better. And he felt his cold heart come back alive and he could feel the hope infecting him. After all, somebody had to stand tall and prove that his people hadn't given up yet. And deep inside his heart he knew that he had to be this somebody. If not he himself, who else? No matter how hard it was, no matter if he liked it or not, he had to prove to himself that he was still able to hope and to believe that there were going to be better times. And he needed to do it for his people. In the middle of this endless chaos, somebody needed to prove to them that there was a bright future waiting for them. He just needed to get himself together. And he would start that right now. He turned around and went back to where he had just come from, but his steps were much more lively and determined. While he walked he looked up to the sky, covered with grey clouds that slowly dissolved. The future was going to be bright. He knew it. It had to. He knew that he couldn't survive hitting rock bottom once more. Even his want to stand back up again and rise like a phoenix would end somewhere.

* * *

Even though he had barely eaten or drank anything or gotten some sleep, the tears kept streaming down his face. Since he had gotten home, he had been hiding in his room, on his bed, underneath a bunch of pillows and blankets. Lovino had been confused to say the least as his fratellino had gotten home. He had been quiet, so unlike usual, it actually made Lovino worry more about Feliciano than he had already during the past few years. His brother had gotten down the hall and up the stairs quietly, followed by the sound of a door being opened and closed. Then it had been quiet for a few minutes. Then he could hear the sobs ringing through the house. Nobody was allowed to enter his room, except Lovino. But he still refused to talk. He would shake his head or nod, but other than the desperate sounds of his crying, no sound would fall from his lips. He refused to eat, and it was very difficult to get him to drink. But for once, there was a person in Lovino's life that he deemed more important to take care of than himself.

His brother had been forced to stay strong for so long, had been forced to keep the tears from falling. Of course he would break down into tears at some point. And now that he had reached this point, he needed to know that he was not completely alone. Lovino needed to prove that he was there for his brother. Even though he wasn't in the best condition himself, somebody needed to take the lead in times like those. Somebody needed to take care of things. And apparently, it was his turn to be in charge. So, on the fourth day since his brother had come home, he decided it was time to take actions. No matter if he liked it or not, Feliciano couldn't hide forever. And he needed to finally eat something. So Lovino made Pasta with fresh tomato sauce for his brother and poured two glasses of the red wine he knew his fratellino loved. Then he went up the stairs to see how his brother was doing. He knocked carefully and could hear the violent sobbing stop for a moment.

It broke his heart. It broke his heart to hear his brother so desperate. This couldn't continue like this, or it would destroy the both of them. "It's just me. Can I come in?" He decided to wait another moment, and when his brother didn't make any sounds of protest he dared to enter his room. The curtains were closed and in the middle of the bed there was a limp figure, wrapped up into several blankets, shielding him from the outside world. His sobs grew a little bit softer with every step Lovino made towards the bed and were barely audible once he sat on the chair next to the bed, facing his brother's back. He could smell the mouth watering scent of fresh pasta and the faint aroma of red wine, but he couldn't gather the strength to sit up and eat something. "Please, you have to eat something. Could you do me that favour, fratello? Per favore?" His voice was soft, but they both knew that it was more of a command and left no room for arguing. He nodded weakly and turned his head towards his brother. He was thankful that he took care of him, but he knew that he was probably just a huge burden. But he could also see his brother's face light up ever so slightly at his nod and the ghost of a smile appear on his tan face. He was softly pulled into a sitting position and the blankets were pulled off his skinny body. And the faint smile on Lovino's face disappeared immediately as he realized that he still wore his blue uniform.

"Why are you still wearing this?" he asked softly and froze when he saw his brother's dull, lifeless eyes were filling with tears once again. "It's ok. Let's just take it off, si?" Another not very encouraging nod, yet Feliciano made no attempts to take his uniform off. The older one sighed softly and slowly moved his hands to rid his brother of the stained clothing. He opened the belt around his waist, removed the blue jacket, freed his neck of the blue satin tie, pulled off the blue pants and unbuttoned the white dress shirt. He didn't dare to take a look at his brother's half naked form. He was afraid to discover new scars. The younger flinched and started to sob again as he saw his dirty clothes and tried desperately to push away the horrible thoughts that constantly tried to invade his mind. "Hey, it's ok. You're save now. I'm here. No need to be scared." he said, trying to calm his brother down, a hand on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles. Feliciano nodded weakly and wiped his tears away. "I'm going to get rid of this. And it would be really nice if you would eat something in the meantime."

Another weak nod, and Lovino left the room to find a place for the uniform. Even though it stood for all the wrong things that had happened, he couldn't bring himself to throw it away. He finally stuffed it into a random box full of old clothes in the basement. He feared what would happen if he left his brother alone too long, so he made sure he was at his side again soon. And he was pleasantly surprised to see that Feliciano had decided to put on a loose white shirt and held the almost empty plate of pasta in his hands. But his eyes still looked as dull and lifeless as before. "I'm sorry." Feliciano said quietly, his voice raspy and without the usual cheery spark in it. "I know I am a burden and that all the others were right. I'm useless." Lovino felt his heart clench and he put his hand on his brother's shoulder again. "Don't say that. You're not useless. You were so strong the last years. It's ok, it's all ok now." And as Feliciano looked into his brother's tear filled eyes it started something deep inside him, causing him to start sobbing uncontrollably again and to wrap his arms around his brother's shoulders. He couldn't talk anymore, and as Lovino felt his brother's desperate grip his own tears spilled over. "Shhh, don't cry. It's ok, you are safe now." he said as he wrapped his arms tightly around the younger one's waist and held him, tried to comfort him, whispering gentle, reassuring words.

"Fratello?" Feliciano asked carefully after a while. "Do you promise everything is going to be fine again?" Lovino had to swallow a few times before he could answer. Because he could easily lie to everybody, except his brother. "Sure. I promise that everything is going to be ok one day." No matter how hard it was to lie to him, he knew that the heartbroken look on his face would be even harder to endure. He couldn't tell him the truth. He couldn't tell him that he didn't believe in a better future. Because no matter how hard it was, at least one of them needed to stand tall with their head high. He knew if they didn't take care of each other, there would be no future for them.

* * *

He couldn't live with himself. In the end all of this was his fault. Maybe he should've resisted more. Maybe he could've known. But it didn't matter anymore. His brother would soon be gone, Italy and Austria didn't want to see him anymore, and actually he couldn't even look into the mirror. He was a horrible person. He hated himself. He couldn't stand his own presence. He had decided to do the world a favour and end all of this. So he was sitting in his office, still dressed like the proper soldier he was, staring at the little capsule on his desk. He wasn't entirely sure if he really wanted this. But there was no plan B, he simply didn't know what else to do. He couldn't face the others any more. It would never be the same again. He picked the capsule up and held it between trembling fingers.

Was this the right choice? Was this the easiest way to solve everything? He dropped the capsule again and hid his face in his hands. What would the others think if they heard the news? Would they be surprised? Would somebody miss him? He was almost sure that nobody would miss him or grieve for him. But then the thought of a certain Italian invaded his mind and he felt bad for even daring to think about suicide. He would miss him. He would grieve for him. It would break him to hear that his friend had decided to kill himself. Suddenly his plan seemed a lot worse to him than before.

Then he thought about his brother. He had raised him. He had taught him things. And in turn he had promised him to take his place one day. That one day he would step out of Prussia's shadow and become a strong and independent nation. He couldn't break this promise. He had promised him, and now he was about to disappear. It would be cruel to break a dead man's promise. He wanted Prussia to be proud of him. He could never be proud of somebody who had committed suicide. He stared down at the little capsule and wanted to smash it. Instead he opened a drawer in his desk and threw it in. He closed the drawer and rested his face in his hands, elbows on the table. He couldn't disappoint Italy and Prussia.

But the prospect of having to face the world again, after all the horrible things he had done was not a very pleasant one. Thinking about the future made him worry, and he wondered how the others dealt with their current situation. He doubted that they felt as terrible and conflicted as he did. But on the other hand, they were surely not enjoying themselves either. He didn't want to be alone again. He wished Prussia was still here. Or Italy. Or Austria. But wishing was one thing, and reality was another. He was alone. So he was the only person to keep himself from doing something regrettable. He was all by himself. But sadly, this was nothing new. It was just harder to accept than before.

* * *

He hadn't been here for so long. He had never liked living in Berlin. He hadn't liked the city, he hadn't liked the people, he hadn't liked it at all. But now he was back home. And it broke his heart to find that his home hadn't stayed unaffected by the bombs. Vienna itself was a mess, and even his beautiful old house was damaged. But still, for him there was nothing that could stop him from doing as he pleased. And right now, it would please him to continue living his life like before 1938. So he stepped inside, telling himself that remaining indifferent was the smartest thing to do. But as soon as he saw the extent of the damage, he knew that it was impossible. All of this was just as much his fault as it was Germany's, and he didn't like feeling guilty. So he swallowed the unpleasant emotions bubbling up, smoothed down his suit jacket and continued walking through his house.

He opened the door to his kitchen. And next to the sink, there was his favourite cup. The cup he had drank his tea from the day Germany had come to annex him. It was dusty and it had a crack. He linked so many memories with this cup, just as many good ones as bad ones. But the bad ones were the more recent ones, so those were the only ones replaying in his head. He glared at the cup as if it had personally insulted his whole entire being and put it into the cupboard with slightly shaky hands. Then he left the kitchen again. Somewhere in the back of his head there was a little voice that kept telling him that he shouldn't act like it didn't affect him, but he ignored it. Difficult emotions weren't good for him. They were hard to deal with, and he liked to keep his life easy. The voice also kept on telling him that denying and ignoring things wasn't good for him, but he had become too good at ignoring the little voice over the last years.

He opened the door to his study. The couch he had sat on the day Germany had come was covered with a thick layer of dust and sand. It was filthy, but he sat down anyway. Every other person would've reflected on what had happened in the past few years, but he decided not to. It was still so much easier to forget all about it. But there was one more thing he needed to check before he was satisfied.

He went down the hall and entered the music room. And the sight of the room, pieces of the ceiling and dust everywhere was horrible. And in the middle of the chaos, there it was: his precious piano. No, it actually didn't stand anymore. Two of its feet were broken, there were scratches and cuts all over it and he presumed that it sounded just as miserable as it looked. He pressed down a few of the white ivory keys, the beginning of one of his favourite pieces, and his presumption proved to be true. He looked around the room he had spent so many hours in, and all of sudden he realized that during all those years he had lived in this house for, he had never been here al alone. But now there was nobody except him. Hungary, Italy, Spain, Germany, Prussia... They were all gone. Nobody was there for him anymore.

And as he let this information sink in his whole construction of lies, illusions and repression came crashing down. His eyes grew blurry and he dropped to his knees in front of the only thing that hadn't left his side in all those years. It didn't take long for him to break down into tears like there was absolutely no tomorrow. Even though his throat, mouth, nose and eyes refused to obey him and work properly, his brain suddenly decided to assault him with all of his flaws, mistakes and wrong decisions. Why did all of this have to happen? Why was it so hard for him to admit that he had scars as well, why was it so hard for him to admit to himself that he had his weak moments, why was it so hard for him to accept what had happened? Why tended he to deny things and to try and return to his previous lifestyle? Why? But there was no real, satisfying answer. He would have to learn how to live with his past. And maybe, one day, he would be able to look into the mirror and be proud of himself, with all of his good and bad features.

* * *

Yeah, so this wasn't a particularly happy story, but I hope you liked it anyway.

Drop a Review?


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